The Golden Maze
You are bleeding, Julian. Look at your hands. They are red to the wrist, a deep arterial crimson that stains the white cotton of your lab coat, yet you do not stop working. You do not look up. The scalpel in your hand is steady, or perhaps it is the trembling of your own body that makes the room seem to sway. The air in the lecture hall is thick, stale with the scent of old paper and the...
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